


Tonight You're Perfect

by TheFaultInOurLogic (iknownothing)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Lydia is thirty-five and divorced, Stiles Is Seventeen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-18
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-16 03:48:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1330810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iknownothing/pseuds/TheFaultInOurLogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia Martin is recently divorced from her husband of ten years Jackson Whittemore and, in a sudden flash of impulsiveness, decides Jackson could be right when he says younger is better. Stiles happens to catch her eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Lydia orders the strongest thing she possibly can and raises it vaguely in the direction of the ceiling, toasting Jackson and all his bastard friends. She's thirty-five, newly divorced, and her husband of ten years is somewhere in the Bahamas fucking eighteen year old natives. She wishes him the worst STD out there and drains the glass, placing it back on the table and thinking she just might order another one. The alcohol won't run off, at least. No, it will be with her when she wakes up tomorrow. 

She grimaces when she considers the idea of teaching a college course with a hangover, but orders the second drink anyway. Who the hell cares? She'll take some Tylenol and get over it. She'll find a postcard from Nassau featuring a short "You should really meet so-and-so" message from Jackson and get over it. 

The bartender, some guy with dark hair named Damien or something, grabs her glass and nods obediently when she tells him she wants the same thing again until she's too drunk to move. He's in his late twenties and definitely someone she could see herself going home with, but he keeps glancing at the door like he's expecting someone. Whether it's a girlfriend, boyfriend, sister, estranged aunt, or what the hell ever he doesn't look like he would consider going home with a stranger while they've yet to arrive. Lydia sighs and looks down at her fingernails tapping against the bar. 

The bartender sets another glass down in front of her. She picks it up and considers the liquid before setting it back down. She doesn't feel like drinking anymore. Now she just feels alone. 

Her fingernails tap, tap, tap against the glass of the bar and more than one man is looking her over. She gives one a smile, another the finger, and a third a smirk. Suddenly she's feeling the urge to go back to her apartment and sleep, maybe cancel class, maybe go anyway and try to teach kids who don't know the first thing about mathematics. They're all empty headed, arrogant boys and shallow, calculating girls. They remind her of Jackson and herself when they were in high school. Practically ages ago when she thinks about it. 

"I'll need to see some ID, please." 

Lydia looks up from her scrutiny of the bar top at the words and smirks when she sees a lanky, awkward kid at the other end of the bar from her. He has brown hair, lengthy in that way that some guys let their hair get, shaggy but not unbearably so. He's pulling a wallet from the pocket of a tattered jacket and looks nervous. He should be, Lydia thinks coolly, he barely looks older than fourteen. Apparently the bartender thinks so as well, because he hands the ID back and shakes his head. At this, the kid begins to argue and Lydia watches the way his hands move sporadically when he talks. It's almost like he has no idea they're doing anything. 

"Leave or I'm going to call security." The bartender ends the argument and walks off to serve another customer, leaving the kid to slide dejectedly off the barstool and head back out into the night. Lydia watches him for a moment, thoughts bouncing around in her head, thoughts she isn't sure should be there. 

She's thinking that the scrawny, because he's more scrawny than lanky, kid might be fun to play with. She's thinking that Jackson might be right about younger being better. She's thinking that she might be interested in buying this scrawny, younger than her by at least fifteen years kid a drink. 

"Keep the change." She tells the bartender as she leaves and he tilts his head slightly, a universal symbol of gratitude that all good bartenders know. Without even walking fast she catches up to the kid and without even trying she gets his attention. He's glancing at her by the time she's level with him and staring when she matches her pace with his. She stares right back, sizing him up, noting the moles on his face and the brown of his eyes. She decides she likes brown eyes better than blue. 

For a little bit, she walks in silence and merely lets the kid fidget. And, oh, does he fidget. She can almost feel the tension coming off of him, the want and the uncertainty, and she loves it. She's walking close enough that, when he flexes his fingers nervously, they brush hers. Immediately, he shies away from her, looking more than a little nervous. She likes that he looks nervous. 

"I'm Stiles." He finally cracks and she crinkles her nose at the name, "My mom named me." He says at the look on her face and she relaxes into a smile. 

"I'm Lydia." She offers and hold out a hand, gripping his firmly in her own, "Lydia Martin." 

"You're wearing a wedding ring." Stiles points out and now he's nervous again, but also curious. She pulls the ring off and puts it in her pocket smoothly. 

"Just a pretty piece of jewelry." 

"And a legal contract." The sudden spark of sarcasm has her grinning, "And probably some super strong husband willing to kill me and dump me in the woods." 

"I don't like to talk about him." She pauses and arches an eyebrow, "Why should you be worried? What are you planning?" The words have him turning pink and stammering. 

"I'm just used to getting knocked around for even looking at a guy's girlfriend." He explains quickly, "You know how it is. Well, I mean, you're probably the one getting looked at." He turns red at the words and Lydia laughs.

"You think I'm pretty." 

"I'm sure a lot of people do." 

She doesn't answer, merely continues walking. 

"Why are you talking to me?" The question is hesitant, but Lydia likes the forwardness of it. She decides to answer honestly, even though she can't be quite sure what the honest answer is. 

"Because I'm thirty-five and tired of fucking thirty-five year olds." 

Stiles seems to choke on whatever he was planning to say and Lydia stops again, smiling while the kid gapes at her, clearly not believing her. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. She inspects her fingernails and decides she likes the way they look almost as much as she likes the way Stiles looks when he's nervous. 

She's beginning to think it might be nice to get a few more chances to make him nervous. 

"I have to get home." 

Lydia looks up at the words, sudden as they are, and cocks her head. 

"Why?" 

"It's almost ten." 

"Not too late." Lydia looks up at the sky, at the stars, then back at Stiles, "Your parents will be worried?" She likes the way he flushes again, realizing his own age or his lack of freedom. 

"My dad will be." Stiles corrects, "He's a sheriff. They're made to worry." 

"I don't have anyone to worry." 

"Not even your husband?" 

She ignores the question, "I'll see you again tomorrow?" 

Stiles looks bewildered, "What do you-"

"I'll see you again tomorrow." Lydia cuts him off decisively, "Same time, same place." 

She grins one last time and heads back towards the bar, leaving the kid gaping behind her. Maybe Jackson was right about younger being better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jackson's an asshole in this I hope no one minds.

Lydia cancels class the next morning and throws away the letter she receives in the mail from Jackson, presumably something about his new girlfriend. They stopped being painful weeks ago when their marriage was still disintegrating and not fully destroyed. When he was in the process of destroying it and she was in the process of accepting that it was what needed to happen. 

After throwing away the letter she goes for a short jog, since it's a nice day, and paints her fingernails red. She listens to the sound of water dripping into her sink while she waits for her fingernails to dry and, impulsively, pulls out her old high school yearbook. She flips through the pages carefully, looking back at what she had never let herself consider the best four years of her life. Why consider them the best years of her life when she was planning on making herself bigger than ever? A nice house, a nice husband, a job at a college or in some program. She had wanted years that would just keep getting better. 

For ten years she had gotten just that. 

She falters when she reaches a painfully familiar picture of herself holding a first place trophy at some math competition or other. It was Senior year and she had finally decided that she wasn't going to let herself be scared anymore. Surprisingly, she'd been just as revered after winning the award as before. Jackson had kissed her and told her how proud he was and when he was pulling away, both of them smiling like idiots, one of the yearbook staff had taken a picture. 

Instinctively Lydia runs a finger down the length of Jackson's face and tries to remember the last time he gave her that look. It might have been at their wedding, when she got the job at the college, maybe Christmas a few years ago when she finally made it down the big slope at the ski resort. 

A tear falls on the page and she yanks her hand back as if she's been burned. After the initial shock she reaches a hand tentatively towards her face and presses her fingers to her cheek. They come back wet and she swears softly. She's been trying to forget that she cares. Lately, she'd been thinking it was working. 

"Bastard." She rubs the back of her hands across her cheeks roughly, slamming the yearbook shut when she's done. She pushes it off the coffee table and lets it stay where it lands. 

"Bastard, bastard, bastard!" She all but wails and stands abruptly, giving the yearbook one good kick so that it skitters across the wood floor. 

"Fucking son of a bitch!" She kicks the yearbook again, and again, and again until it doesn't feel good anymore and then she takes a deep breath. She checks the time. She pulls herself together one mundane task at a time. She takes a shower, puts on makeup, dries her hair and lets it fall loose to her shoulders, pulls on a black dress. 

She slides her wedding ring in her purse, out of sight but not quite out of mind, and pushes her shoulders back. When she looks in the mirror, she smiles bravely but not quite convincingly. Her smile falters, wavers, and she hates herself for being scared. Jackson wasn't everything; she has her job, her friends, her money, her own life. But he was a big portion of her life. And she used to be a big portion of his. 

"You're not Mrs. Whittemore." She tells her reflection sternly, "You're Lydia Martin." 

She smiles again and it's a bit more confident, a bit more sexy, a bit more her. 

"Same time, same place." 

She shakes her hair back and tries to think of something besides Jackson and ten years. The air is cold enough to require some sort of jacket, which she didn't think to bring, so she focuses on walking briskly and missing the cracks in the sidewalk. The downtown area is in the state of in-between that comes after 10 PM and before 12. It's the time she likes the best because there are less people to think about and more time to spend thinking about lesson plans and practically impossible math equations she's solved several times. She once put one up on her board and it stayed, untouched, for the whole year. 

"Same thing." She tells the bartender when she sits down and is pleased that he seems to recognize her. At least, he brings her the right drink on the first try. She takes a sip and watches the door while keeping an eye on the people around her. She's not in the mood to be hit on tonight. 

"Waiting for someone?" The bartender, Derek not Damien, leans against the counter and can't help but smile slightly at the question. If he knew she was waiting on the kid he kicked out he would be more than surprised. 

"You to get me another drink." She downs the glass quickly and hands it to him. 

"Coming right up." He doesn't seem offended at the dismissal. 

For a few minutes she watches him work, forgetting about watching the door. She checks her watch a few times and frowns when the hour gets later and later. 

"Same time, same place." 

Lydia smiles. 

"I thought you weren't going to show up." She says casually as Stiles slides uncertainly onto the stool next to hers, looking warily at the bartender, "I'll take care of him." Lydia assures him, pulling a fifty out of her wallet and holding it out for the bartender to see. He glances between her and Stiles, setting down her drink before taking the money. 

"You didn't have to do that." Stiles says defensively and Lydia thinks it's cute. 

"You didn't have to come." 

Stiles snorts but doesn't say anything. 

"Is your dad going to be worried?" Lydia prompts when Stiles still refuses to say anything and he shrugs noncommittally. 

"He's going to be out late tonight anyway." 

"Seeing someone?" Lydia teases but quickly stops when she sees the look on Stiles face. He looks almost horrified at the thought, but not in a typical teenage way. It looks like the thought of his dad seeing someone aggravates some wound or other. She makes a note to ask about it later. If anything it will keep him around longer if they make some sort of headway in getting to know each other. Plus, she's genuinely interested. She's not so heartless as to fuck and run, although she's had her share of that. Her earlier episode proved that. However, she would like to get to the fucking as soon as possible, "Stiles, are you a virgin?" She demands and the kid nearly chokes. 

"Of course not! Why would-"

"I want you to be a virgin." Lydia decides, right then and right there, that that is just what she wants, "So lie." 

"It wouldn't exactly be..." Stiles reaches up a hand and scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, "Lying." 

"Have you kissed a girl before?" 

"This girl Erica in the eighth grade." Stiles answers easily, seeming to relax, "She was nice but epileptic. She didn't really get along with Scott either, I mean, they were always arguing over stupid things. And we couldn't play video games when she was over because they could cause her to have a seizure." 

"Boys and their games." Lydia says dryly, thinking of Jackson, "Is that it?" 

"Well, Scott and I aren't really popular." Stiles seems unperturbed, "I think it's Scott, actually. He's pretty adorable but a horrible lacrosse player." 

"Lacrosse?" Lydia hardens at the word, "You play lacrosse?" Jackson played lacrosse. She doesn't want a lacrosse player. She wants something as far from Jackson as she can get.

"I'm the team manager, or at least that's what Finstock calls me when he's feeling friendly." 

"What does he call you when he's not?" 

"That Stilinski kid." 

"Stilinski?" 

"My last name." 

"Ah," Lydia sips her drink, "Would you like something to drink?" 

"No thanks." Stiles looks down at the bar top, "Yesterday wasn't a good day for me." 

Lydia looks at him for a moment before deciding not to ask, "How old are you?" 

"Seventeen." 

"When's your birthday?" 

"Next month." 

"I don't want to do anything illegal." She muses while tapping her fingers against the bar, "So we'll have to wait." 

"Wait?" Stiles asks although the look on his face tells her he knows exactly what she means. 

"To fuck." She clarifies anyway and he turns pink. 

"Okay." He agrees hesitantly, "This isn't some kind of set up, is it?" 

"It could be." Lydia shrugs, "But it's not." 

"O...kay." Stiles tilts his head, "So, what now?"

"Same time, same place." Lydia responds, "Good?" 

"Good." Stiles agrees much more decisively. 

"Go home, Stiles." 

"See you, Lydia."


	3. Chapter 3

"I'll have what she's having." 

Lydia wraps her arms around Danny's neck and breathes in the scent of him, letting him rub her back and whisper condolences in her ear even Derek brings Danny his drink. It's been almost three years since she last hugged Danny. When he moved to Hawaii to be with his grandmother they almost completely lost touch. 

"Long time, no see." He says when she pulls away and puts his hands on her shoulders, sizing her up, "You still look like a girl with a plan." He says and she knows it's his way of acknowledging the elephant in the room. She shrugs and slides onto a stool, feeling oddly at home with her fingers wrapped around an unfamiliar glass and her wrist against the slightly sticky bar top. 

"How's your grandmother?" She asks and Danny pins her with a look that clearly means she's not getting away with a topic change, "I'm fine, Danny." She sighs and cups her chin in her palm, "Honestly." 

"Jackson's always been a dick," Danny sighs, "But I never thought he would leave you." 

"That makes two of us." Lydia responds softly and Danny grabs her free hand, squeezing it softly. It's reassuring and familiar, something he used to always do when she was stressing about some stupid thing or another in high school. Jackson was her boyfriend, but Danny was always there for her. Always. 

"You'll find someone else, Lyds." 

For a moment, Lydia almost tells him about Stiles. She's met up with the kid several times now and has grown attached just from their conversations at the bar. He's quick to tell about himself, doesn't hold anything back, hardly seems to mind that she won't see him anywhere but the bar. He's taken to calling the bartender by name even though Derek seems wholly uncomfortable with the situation. Stiles' confidence almost reminds Lydia of Jackson, but with Jackson it was bravado, while with Stiles it's a genuine inability to care. She's found that she likes that a lot more than bravado. 

"I will." She finally responds and Danny looks appeased, "Now, tell me about Hawaii." 

"It's fantastic, Lydia." Danny says happily, "I mean, living there is just amazing. I bought and renovated this little place just by the beach, it's a grill now, and it's doing amazing. It's called Danny's Burgers and you'll have to come visit me and eat there. The cook I found is perfect, really. And there's a park not far from the house where people play soccer, football, and even lacrosse." 

"Lacrosse." Lydia murmurs, "Stiles plays lacrosse." 

Danny looks at her, "Stiles?" 

Lydia tries not to look guilty as she takes a sip of her drink, "Just a guy." She feigns innocence but the look on Danny's face tells her she's not doing a very good job. Immediately, she begins formulating lies and vague characteristics in her mind. Danny is a good interrogator and an even better lie detector. He was born to call people on things. She wishes he wasn't so good at it now. 

"Just a guy?" Danny repeats skeptically, "How many times have you seen him?" 

"Who says I've seen him?" Lydia demands, "He could be a co-worker."

"Who says you can't see co-workers?" 

"I went out with him once, Danny." Lydia lies smoothly, brushing her fingers lightly over the bottom of her dress to avoid looking Danny in the eye, "He's sweet but I can't really see myself with him." She doesn't mention that seeing herself with him was never her goal in the first place. Danny would call it a defense mechanism and tell her to start looking for something more than just sex. He would tell her not to stoop to Jackson's level. He would tell her she's worth more. 

All of which is true, she knows, but she doesn't want to hear it. 

"Are you going to see him again?" Danny prompts. 

"Maybe." Lydia says to appease him and this time is able to look him in the eye, "Do you think I should?" 

She asks because a part of her wants Danny's approval, even though he doesn't know anything about the situation. She's not a dependent person but Danny always knows what to do. 

"Is he nice?" 

"He's sweet, yes." 

"Is he handsome?" 

Lydia considers the question, "Not like Jackson." She concludes. 

"Good." Danny approves, "You don't need another Jackson." 

"He plays lacrosse, you know that." Lydia continues, "And he's a bit nerdy." 

"Let me guess," Danny grins, "A Star Wars fan?" 

"A fanatic." Lydia admits, "But he's smart." 

"You need someone who can keep up with you." 

"I don't know about that." Lydia shakes her head at the thought, "I'm plenty smart enough for whoever decides they deserve me." She laughs when Danny rolls her eyes, "Oh, don't look at me like that." 

"Still the same old Lydia." Danny teases her, "So modest." 

"Well," Lydia says, "I'm tired of being pretty and stupid. I spent sixteen years being pretty and stupid." 

"And now you've spent nineteen being pretty and a genius." 

"Here's to fifty more!" She holds up her glass and Danny clinks his against it laughing. 

"How about a hundred more." He suggests setting his now empty glass on the table, "You deserve it." 

"I do." Lydia says, and then again, "I do."


	4. Chapter 4

"What do you do?" 

Lydia stills at the question, drink halfway to her mouth, and Stiles quickly backtracks, "You don't have to tell me or anything, but I figured since you know a lot about me you might, uh..." 

"Return the favor?" She finishes with a quirk of the lips, setting her glass down, and Stiles rubs the back of his neck awkwardly in response, "I'm a teacher." She answers simply, leaving out the where and the what. Stiles seems satisfied with the answer though, like she's actually given him something. 

"You don't look like a teacher." He studies her, "You look like a..." He shrugs, "I don't know. A business woman or something. Something where you make a lot of money for yelling at people."

Lydia laughs, "Yelling at people?" 

"Yeah," Stiles laughs with her, "Making people cry." 

"There are a lot of ways to make people cry." Lydia sobers at the thought of crying. She absentmindedly brushes her hand across the pocket of her navy skirt where her ring is stored. Stiles watches her carefully, his eyes moving to her hand where it rests against her thigh before traveling back to her face. Lydia clears her throat softly and looks away, "I've made people cry without even raising my voice." She frowns, mind wandering to years previous when she was colder and harsher than she had any right to be, "I was a bitch in high school." 

"All pretty girls are bitches." Stiles says lightly, "It's like a rite of passage or something. Like a law. If thou have a pretty face, thou must also have an ugly soul." 

"I'm sure some pretty girls are nice." Lydia argues, "What about Erica?"

Stiles looks uncomfortable, "She was pretty I guess but not pretty like you are." 

Despite the age difference and the distance she's been trying to keep between them, Lydia finds the words sweet. She smiles genuinely at the compliment. 

"What about Scott?" She asks to change the subject, "Has he kissed a girl?" She doesn't know why she's interested but she is. She likes focusing on Stiles and his life. It's so different from the life she lead when she was in high school. It's like a whole different dimension, a different world. For some reason she wishes it had been her world as well as his. What if she had been nerdy, or ugly, or too nice for her own good? Would she be talking to this seventeen year old kid now with a wedding ring in her pocket and an ache in her heart? Or would she be at home with a husband who didn't consider ten years a waste? 

"He has a girlfriend." Stiles' mouth twists on the word, like the thought is unpleasant, "Allison." 

"You don't like her?" 

"No, I do like her." He corrects, "That's the problem." 

"You're in love with her?" Lydia tries to picture this and fails. She can't see Stiles in love. Maybe it's a defense mechanism, to keep herself from realizing that what she's doing could end up hurting him. Maybe it's something else. 

"No!" Stiles seems appalled by the very idea, "She's nice! I like her! I like talking to her and I want her to be happy, but she's practically stealing my best friend!" He seems genuinely upset. Lydia doesn't know what to do. 

"Maybe you should try talking to him?" She sounds uncertain even to herself. Suddenly, she feels ridiculous. Talking to Stiles was never a good idea, it was just a way to get back at Jackson. He's only a kid with a kid's problems. What right does she have to drag him from his kid's problems into her adult problems? 

"He's too happy." Stiles is resigned to the fact, "What kind of best friend would I be to ruin that?" 

"When's your birthday?" Lydia blurts instead of what she wants to say, which is "I don't think we should do this." Stiles looks confused for a moment. 

"July tenth." 

It's June 14 now. Lydia feels nervous for some reason. Less than a month before she can legally do with him what she pleases. Is it worth it? Does she want to? Should they be spending more time together than the hour or two they spend talking in the bar? Most importantly, should she tell Danny? 

Ever since mentioning Stiles to Danny, the latter has been talking non-stop about him. Lydia has almost confessed Stiles' age and her own intentions several times, but something has always stopped her. Now, though, she's thinking she might like the advice or, she thinks as she listens to Stiles talk about Scott and Allison, a reality check. 

"What are you doing tomorrow?" 

Stiles doesn't seem to mind that he's been interrupted, "Nothing." 

"You should come by my apartment." She takes in the nervous, but undeniably excited look he gives her and amends her statement, "You should come by my apartment to talk." 

"But the bar-"

"I'm getting tired of this bar." She cuts across him easily, "So we'll be moving to my place." 

She knows it adds a certain intimacy to the thing, she knows she shouldn't be adding any intimacy to the thing, she knows this. But she doesn't like the way the lights of the bar make her skin look paler than it really is or the way Stiles never orders a drink. She doesn't like the noise and the added pressure of other people watching, wondering. And she especially doesn't like the way Derek knows her order by heart. Some part of her is scared of creating some dependency on the pounding, sickly lit, alcohol filled bar. 

It just doesn't feel right.

Too grown up, her mind supplies, you don't like how it feels too grown up. 

Maybe, she says back, maybe. 

Stiles continues talking about friends and school while Lydia lets her fingers tap on the surface of the bar. She doesn't want intimacy, she doesn't want anything more than something to take her mind off Jackson. But is it fair to Stiles? He's just a kid. 

Her head hurts.


	5. Chapter 5

On Friday Lydia cancels class and goes shopping. 

She doesn't buy clothes because she has plenty of those, but she buys a few paintings to hang around her apartment. One of the paintings reminds her of the kind of place Jackson dreamed about owning a house on; a blindingly white beach with no one for, you can imagine, miles and miles. The sea in the painting is an unnatural blue. There are no fish, but there are seagulls hovering in the middle of the orange and yellow sun. The painting is nearly four hundred dollars for some reason. She doesn't care. 

This one will go in her bedroom, she decides. The painting of the tree in fall will go in the living room, and the painting of a carnival or fair or something will go in the kitchen. 

Stiles will in her apartment in less than twenty-four hours. 

For some reason the buying of paintings and the idea of Stiles being in her apartment are connected. Lydia supposes these two things are connected because the paintings are new and will make her apartment look like somewhere else. It will make her decisions less personal and her mistakes less destructive, or so she hopes. In reality, it won't do shit. She's a smart woman, so of course she knows buying paintings won't do shit. She buys them anyway. Maybe Stiles will like them. Maybe she'll like them when she puts them up. At the moment, she hates them. 

The carnival/fair is too empty, possibly a statement but most likely laziness on the painter's part. Whoever they were, they didn't feel like painting any people. In Lydia's mind, carnivals and fairs should never be empty. 

The beach scene reminds her too much of Jackson. 

The tree looks like a child painted it. She paid almost as much as the beach scene for it. 

On the way home, the paintings rattle in the trunk. She takes the turns and curves sharply, finding herself wishing the frames would shatter and the paintings would be torn to shreds. 

Jackson sent her another letter, this time with a picture of a sunset over the clearest water. 

The picture is hanging on the refrigerator in her apartment. The magnet holding it up is a chalkboard with E=MC^2 in white lettering like chalk. Jackson got it for her along with a new car last Christmas. She sold the car and kept the magnet. 

It's because she's thinking about magnets and sunsets over the clearest water that she doesn't realize she's speeding. She does, however, hear the sirens and recognize that she is being apprehended. 

"Fuck." She swears and pulls over, beginning the search for the appropriate items. She's holding them when the cop, a man with gray hair but a kind face, taps on her window. She rolls it down and smiles. 

"Do you know how fast you were going?" The officer immediately asks and Lydia shakes her head. 

"No," She admits, "I don't." 

"Fifty-five." The officer supplies, "In a thirty-five zone." 

"Wasn't paying attention, Officer..." Lydia squints at the badge and her feels her heart stop, "Stilinski." She forces the name past her lips and then forces herself to smile. She must look sick, because Sheriff Stilinski looks concerned. 

"Are you all right?" He asks kindly, from serious to fatherly in a few seconds, and Lydia forces herself to nod and steady herself. She was bound to meet Stiles' father eventually. The town wasn't even that big. She should have been prepared for this from the beginning. Internally, she curses herself for being so blind to a very real occurrence. 

"Yes, just a long day." She says stiffly and holds out her license and registration, "You'll be needing these?" 

The Sheriff looks at her for a moment, "No, I'll let you off with a warning this time." 

"Are you sure?" Lydia asks, wishing he wasn't so damn nice. It just makes her feel a thousand times worse about what she's planning to do with his son. Because this man looks as if he cares about his son. 

"Just be careful." The Sheriff says seriously, "I don't want to see you get hurt." 

Lydia feels her eyes begin to water because, dammit, he genuinely cares. She nods stiffly in thanks and tries her best to smile, but she can't accomplish anything close to a smile and The Sheriff seems to understand because he leaves with a last warning to be careful. Lydia sits for a long time after he drives away and cries, head against the steering wheel. She cries for Jackson and for herself, for Stiles and his dad, for all the things she's done and will do. She cries because none of this ever occurred to her and she's never felt so blind. She cries because she's too damn blind. 

She hasn't cried this hard since she was a teenager and her parents got a divorce. 

When Jackson suggested a divorce she was too numb to cry. A part of her decided this was what was supposed to happen. You were supposed to get married, love until you couldn't love anymore, and then separate. You were supposed to love someone into oblivion. You were supposed to love until you hated. She had watched her parents and many of her friends parents do the same thing. 

She's just now beginning to realize that hate is only a symptom of love. 

All this hate she feels is just love with no place to go. 

She falls into the shaky, hiccupping breaths that signal the end of your tears and drags the back of her hands across her eyes. She grips the steering wheel tightly and doesn't bother to check her ruined makeup before pulling back onto the road. The sun is falling down behind the buildings and she thinks of all the times Jackson told her that he loved her.

Then she decides she isn't going to think about that anymore and focuses on her driving and keeping her speed down. She doesn't want to see Stiles' dad again. What if he can see her intentions in her face? What if he calls her out on it? Even worse, what if he's nice again? 

Back at her apartment she hangs up the paintings, all but the beach scene, which she takes out behind her apartment complex and smashes until it's nothing but fragmented class and torn canvas. 

She doesn't throw the magnet in the trash like she was planning.


End file.
